Baccano! - Volume 16 - 1932: Summer Man in the Killer

"…Lemme try this again. How do you know this crazy assassin?"
Maria, who had been standing on the sidelines, butted into the conversation.
"What do you mean? The reporter told us this guy's the killer or one of his amigos,
amigo!"
"We got into a couple scuffles with him before, but this kid ain't the type to commit
murder."
"Really? That's no fun, amigo." Maria looked disappointed.
"Boss Smith, why're you fighting the Gandors? I thought you were done after they
knocked you all the way into the hospital." Graham asked obliviously.
"So looks like you really had no idea." Nico sighed. "That this guy's Ice Pick
Thompson."
Graham's eyes widened. He then tilted his head.
"What're you saying? Ice Pick Thompson's-"
Graham then remembered that Elmer had asked him to keep Mark's identity a secret.
He spun his wrench around and corrected himself.
"Ice Pick Thompson's… uh, who was that again?"
"We're saying this Smith person here's Ice Pick Thompson, amigo."
"Nonononono. That! Is an inconceivable notion."
Maria was confused. Graham let out a hearty laugh.
"Sure, Boss Smith is an assassin, but he's never actually killed anyone before."

Silence came over the building once more.
All eyes were on Smith, awkward and surprised.

Smith, meanwhile, took a deep breath like a man taking an oath, and uttered one
simple sentence.
"It's true that I'm Ice Pick Thompson."
"Boss?" Graham asked, astonished. Nico, however, narrowed his eyes.
"So you admit to it?"
"That's right. I've killed four men so far, though the fifth one's still out there."
"You feeling all right, Boss? You get shot in the head or something?!"
"…?"
Smith's unexpected confession left Graham confused. Nico just stood there and stared
at him.
The assassin grinned under the eyes of his audience, and slowly continued.

"I am Ice Pick Thompson… But those murders weren't for money. It was vengeance."

<=>

The basement of the Jazz Hall 'Coraggioso'.

"I'm real sorry, but I gotta get back to my desk. Never know when I'll get some new
info."
Lester slowly got off his seat. The Gandor men stood up after him.
"That's it, then. We're counting on you."
"Please, we're working together here."
"Right… Watch your back, you hear? It's still raining out there."

"Don't have to tell me twice." Lester said with a laugh, but in his head he was
laughing for another reason.

'If, by any chance, that assassin spills the beans about me…

'I'd better think up an excuse just in case, but for now, I'd better get to that kid's
place. I might even be able to find "it" as early as today.'

It was a rather unlikely hope, but Lester as he was had no way of discerning that fact.

On the underside of his skin were all kinds of 'deaths'.

The memory of committing murder with his own two hands.

Or the memory of a game of killing in which he was only tangentially involved.

Just imagining the outcome was enough to satisfy him.

And with that as his fuel, the killer obsessed with his own life put on the smile of a
reporter and headed for the stairs leading to the exit.

He began to step onto the stairs, when--

"Oh? You're back! Did you forget something?" Tick, sitting in a corner, asked in a
leisurely tone.

'What?'

Lester spun round and looked at Tick. Tick was looking at a point slightly above
Lester.

Someone was at the top of the stairs.

Could it be the dancer girl, he wondered. He looked up at the newcomer.

At the same time, the men in the basement froze in shock.

Right before Lester's eyes was a tiny shadow charging towards him, an ice pick in its
hand.

The next moment, Lester's body fell down the stairs in a heap.

However, the pain of the landing was not an issue for him. This was because the
agonizing sensation running through his shoulder had overcome his entire body.

"AAAAAAAARGH! Gah, HAAAAAAHHHH!"

Lester squirmed on the floor, not realizing what had happened to his body.

"Hey, stop!" "Crazy kid!" "You all right, Mr. Reporter?" "Don't go calling a doctor,
you maroon!" "Oh, it's all right. You don't die right away if you're stabbed like that."
"That ain't the problem here, Tick!" "Who the hell are you, kid?!"

It was surprising how clearly he could hear all these voices. Lester shut his eyes
tightly to shake off the tears in his eyes, then turned his head to look over at the stairs
and the source of his pain.

Before his eyes was a boy descending the stairs.

"I finally found you…"

The boy was staring down at Lester with a fiendish look, holding a bloodied, rusty ice
pick.

"You weren't at your office, and you never came to my apartment… so I thought I
might find you here."

<=>

One hour ago, Mark's apartment.

The sudden click sounding behind him instantly brought Mark back to his senses.
When he turned around, he found the man who had supposedly been sent to kill him--
holding the shotgun he had just tried to shoot and sighing.

"Ah, right. I remember now. I took out all the rounds because shotguns were too risky
to carry like this. Damn. This isn't like me at all."

"…?"

Mark shot the strangely dramatic man a dubious look.

"What're you up to…? Why… Why won't you kill me?"

"…Listen up, kid. What just happened is that I killed you. But--"

The man would go on to suggest a deal. Not with Mark, but the serial killer, Ice Pick
Thompson.

"I'll give you a future, in exchange for your past."

"…What?"

"I may be an assassin, but I don't have much of a reputation. I don't have a track
record, and I don't have any insane stories to tell. That's when I thought--how 'bout
this for an assassin?  The true identity of 'Ice Pick Thompson', the mysterious and
insane serial killer."

"…What?"

The serial killer had not understood a thing the assassin was saying. Mark blinked
rapidly, not knowing how to react.

"…I'm tryin' to say I'll help you in exchange for your record, kid."

"No, well, I get that, but… Why?"

"I told you. I need a reputation."

"…"

Mark tilted his head, still clueless. Smith sighed in defeat, and cautiously looked
around.

"…Shut up and do what I say. I don't want to kill a kid, okay?" He said sheepishly.
Mark's eyes widened.

"But you're an assassin, aren't you? Aren't you betraying your client?"

"Listen up, kid. Assassins are all insane beyond cure, no exceptions."

"…And?"

Mark looked as though he had encountered an exotic creature he had never heard of
in his entire life. Smith opened his arms wide and chuckled. His declaration, far from
embarrassed, was full of pride.

"…It's my client's fault for trusting a madman."

<=>

The basement of the Jazz Hall 'Coraggioso'.

"Y-you're…?! Paula's-! How, damn it?! Shit!"

Lester's earlier glee at toying with the lives of others had evaporated. Now he was
writhing on the floor more than was warranted by his pain, imagining the footsteps of
Death approaching closer.

His injury was far from lethal, but Lester had never experienced this degree of pain.
It was enough to fool him into thinking he was about to die.

"SHIT! GAAAAHHH! Fucking brat! What the hell was that shithead doing? Fuck!
Fuck! Kill him now, damn it! Shot him dead! I'm gonna fucking die!
NOOOOOOOO!"

Lester screamed as he hideously rolled on the floor. The Gandor men looked at him in
displeasure, but they reached into their jackets and glared at the boy standing at the
stairs.

Though they did not open fire straightaway, they remembered the fact that several of
their friends had been murdered in this very room two years ago. The experience left
them more wary than they would have been otherwise.

The boy was carrying a strange paper bag in his left hand, and obviously an ice pick
in his right. But otherwise they did not see any possible weapons in his possession.

"What's wrong? It's dangerous playing around with ice picks, you know." Tick said,
alone in his relaxed outlook. Mark smiled faintly.

"I'm sorry. I… I'll try not to bother you all." He mumbled.

"I dunno what's going on here, kid. But you're plenty of a bother as it is." One of the
men said, tentatively drawing a gun and pointing it at the boy. "What's in that bag?
Easy now, show it to us real slow."

The mafioso was acting out of caution, but Lester, gripped by the hallucinatory fear
of death, took it as too lax a measure.

He staggered to his feet and charged at the man holding the gun.

"Give it here, you bastard!"

"What?!"

The man was taken by surprise at Lester's unexpected strength, and the loaded gun
was snatched away.

And before any of the men could say a word--

Before the boy could reach into the bag--

Before even Lester realized what he was doing--

The trigger was pulled without mercy. Metal lodged itself into human flesh.

However, the flesh did not belong to the boy. The victim was a sudden newcomer
who had jumped from the upper floor as if to shield him.

"…You're…" Mark gasped, mind reeling from the sudden impact.

He was looking directly at the immortal monster that had been chasing after him all
this time.

"Hey there. Are you all right? That was a close one." Elmer smiled, relieved, but
blood was dribbling from his lips and spewing out his back.

"But… you're the one that's… Why…?!"

It was only then that the boy remembered who he was talking to.

"…Don't tell me… it doesn't hurt?"

"It hurts. It's really painful. And could you take a look at your right hand?"

"Huh…?"

Mark looked down and realized that, in the commotion, the ice pick he was holding
had been jammed into Elmer's thigh.

"Ack! I-I'm sorry!"

"Don't worry about it. It's all my fault, really."

Elmer pulled out the ice pick as though nothing had happened and got to his feet with
a smile, despite the fact that he had been shot in the back.

Lester and the mafiosi swallowed their breaths at the sight.

But not a moment later, they were even further shocked by the display of fantasy that
took place.

The blood flowing from Elmer's back and leg crawled back into him, as though in
defiance of both gravity and time.

Each droplet of blood went back to its original place, as though they were possessed
of minds of their own. The mafiosi watched the crawling streams of red and looked
around at one another.

(Hey, isn't this…?) (Just like the bosses…) (Who the hell is this guy?) They
whispered among themselves.

The Gandor men took away the gun from Lester, who stood stock still and gaped,
even forgetting the pain in his shoulder as he brought a certain word to his trembling
lips.

"An… immortal…?!"

The monster's sudden appearance instantly nullified the tension running through the
basement. Yet all he did was smile without a care, not even checking to see that his
injuries were healing.

"Sorry about this. I didn't mean to make a scene here. Ah, are you sure you're all
right?" Elmer asked Mark. But the boy batted his hand away.

"Don't touch me!" He cried as he looked away, nearly in tears. "Why… why did you
have to suddenly show up like that… you've got nothing to do with this… so why are
you trying to save me?!"

"It's a hobby of mine." Elmer answered with surprising quickness. Mark glared at
him.

"Don't make me laugh! I… I'm not worth being saved! I never had that right!"

"You shouldn't be the one to decide that, am I right? Don't be silly, now." Elmer said,
mystified. Mark shook his head.

"Shut up! I… he… that man back then had nothing to do with this…"

He realized that he was even more confused that he thought.

'What's wrong with me? This monster doesn't know a thing about me, or my past. He
doesn't know about… what I've done…' He thought, falling into self-hatred.

"Ah! Speaking of which!"

The moment Elmer heard the words "that man back then had nothing to do with this",
he clapped his hands together in a moment of epiphany.

"That man over there. His name's Lester, right? Ah, now it all makes sense. It's all
coming together now."

"Huh…?"

"Wha…?"

Mark, suddenly having lost the lead in the conversation, and Lester, having his name
suddenly called, both looked up at Elmer.

Elmer beamed as he descended the stairs and stared at Lester's form.

"Wow. You're even wearing the same brand."

"Wh-what the hell…? I… you… shit!"

Lester cried out, remembering the pain in his shoulder. Elmer tossed him a word of
concern ("Are you all right? Try not to worry. This isn't even close to lethal.") and
turned around to face Mark.

"That makes everything clear!"

"Wh-what…?"

Elmer's entirely out-of-place attitude compelled Mark to answer, even letting him
forget for a moment the reason he was here.

The immortal monster seemed to be amused by his reaction, judging from his
widening grin.

"So that's why you stabbed me the other day!"

"…What?"

"It was quite the downpour, eh? We resemble one another quite a bit, and our builds
are similar. And this is the very same outfit I wore that day! It's no small wonder you
mistook me for Mr. Lester here and stabbed me."

<=>

Inside the abandoned building.

"And so, I wandered in search of the last man in order to avenge Paula's death."

"…"

Smith ended his exceedingly long monologue. Nico and the others were locked in
awkward silence.

Graham and Maria had given up on battle about halfway through Smith's story, and
were currently a slight distance away from them, engaged in banter about whether her
katanas could slice through his wrench.

As it turned out, Graham had realized partway through Smith's story that he was
reusing Mark's past. Maria was not interested at all to begin with.

"Anything else you wanna know?"

"…Well… Come to think of it, Carl told us the connection behind the victims."

"Hm?"

"Apparently, there's a chance they approached our Family with ulterior motives in
mind." He thought for a moment, but shook his head and glared at Smith. "But in the
end, it is true that you killed members of our Family. And as long as that remains
true, I can't just let you off on my judgement alone. We'll leave it to Tick to see if you
were just telling the truth or not."

Nicola had probably sensed the possibility that Smith was lying. The gunman claimed
that this woman named Paula was like a sister to him, but Nico could not feel a shred

of affection or sadness in his story. He prepared to signal his men to take away the
firearms Smith concealed all over himself.

But that that very moment, his eardrums were assaulted by the sound of destruction.
Graham had thrown his wrench into the space between Smith and Nico. The tool
lodged itself deep in the wall.

"…Not gonna behave yourself today, Graham?" Nico asked, annoyed. Graham
gleefully spun around and around and stopped in front of Smith.

"Sorry, but Boss Smith here has shown me the joy of taking guns apart until they
were miniature pieces, so I sure as hell ain't letting him go without a fight. All of
humanity's already my enemy, so might as well add the Gandors to the list."

"Which brings you back full circle. But you're seriously gonna help this guy, even if
he's Ice Pick Thompson?"

"Hey, I've been hanging 'round a freaking awesome homicidal lunatic forever. Then
again, he's the kind of bastard who killed people just for the hell of it." Graham said,
gesticulating like a juvenile delinquent. The Gandor men prepared to turn their guns
towards him.

"I see. Put down your guns, all of you."

"B-but, Nico!"

"The bastard over there went crazy with those guns. The cops're probably going crazy
trying to figure out where all the gunshots came from. We're not gonna be idiots and
bring them any closer."

"…Then is it my turn, amigo?" Maria said, rushing over.

Nico gave a wry grin and shook his head, stepping forward to declare his intent to
handle the matter personally.

Smith, his guns lowered, turned to Graham.

"…Kid. How strong is he?"

"I fought 'im a couple times."

"And?"

Graham pulled out his wrench from the wall and gave Smith a thumbs-up and a wink.

"Six losses to one victory!"

"Almost brings tears to my eyes."

"But Mr. Nico here's no good at fighting off Tommy guns. They almost got him with
'em last time, y'know. I'll just jump in and it'll be a real heck of a Mexican standoff!"

"You sound like you're saying you can beat a Tommy gun. And what's this guy, a
monster? He survived getting shot with 'em?" Smith chuckled, nodding. "But…
Those aren't bad odds for a madman like me."

Maria ignored Nico and prepared to draw. Graham laughed, and turned to Smith.

"Seein' as we might end up pushing daisies after this, I gotta ask you something,
Boss."

"Yeah?"

"What'd Elmer say to you way back before you got in here?"

"Ah, well…"

(Mr. Smith, was it? You're a pretty nice person, aren't you?)

(…What?)

(I can see through fake smiles, y'know. And I saw you force one when you said you
killed Mark. And that was the only time you did. So I'm guessing, either you didn't
kill him, or you feel remorse for your actions.)

(…)

(Either way, I think you're a good person. Just wanted to let you know.)

Smith looked down and chuckled bitterly.
"…A good person, eh? He was pretty insane himself."
"What?"
"…I'll tell you if I get outta this alive."
In an instant, the tension had become palpable.
Although Nico had his men remain on standby for the moment, they were ready to
draw at any moment.
At this rate, the standoff would not end without bloodshed.
However--
"…!"
Nico twitched, sensing a change on the streets outside.
"…"
"What's wrong, Nico?" One of his men asked nervously.
"…We're clearin' out." Nico mumbled, his voice clear of tension.
"Huh? Why so suddenly, amigo?"
"Nico?"
Nico suddenly relaxed. His underlings blinked rapidly, confused, but a glance at the
entrance of the abandoned building told them all they needed to know.

At the entrance was Shaft, panting and leaning against the wall.
Behind him was a crowd of about twenty young delinquents from the streets.

"Hah… Haha… Damn it, Boss! You have any idea how hard it was to round up all
the guys at this hour?!"

Shaft was so pale he looked just about ready to collapse, but he did not leave out
anything of importance.

"I called over the guys at Millionaire Row, too. They'll be here any minute now." He
grinned, giving Graham a thumbs-up. Graham's eyes widened in surprise as he spoke
up.

"Don't you think you're going overboard with this whole shebang? Just like… a war.
Yes. Are you trying to wage a goddamn war against the rest of humanity, Shaft? In
the end, you were the true enemy of humanity…? What to do? Will I be able to stop
Shaft's reign of terror? All these people… what're you planning to do with an army
like this? Don't be hasty, Shaft! In the end, all that's left will be the tears of your
family and friends… But before that, my tears!"

"…I called 'em here to lynch you before you could get into a fight with the Gandors,
Boss. …Huh?"

Spotting Nico approaching him, Shaft got out of his way without even thinking.

Maria turned her back on Nico and pouted.

"No fighting today? I could just chop them all up, amigo!"

"We go up against a mob like this, and it won't be just a tussle or an interrogation
anymore. It's all-out war."

"But you and me, Nico, we could take them on, amigo."

"Forget me, the Bosses haven't given me permission to let any of you get hurt. Or
permission to annihilate these brats."

The delinquents flinched at the sharpness in Nico's tone. But none of them tried to
leave, likely counting on Graham's presence to keep them safe.

Nico stopped just before exiting the building and turned to Smith, who was about to
pick up his hat.

"Lemme ask you one last thing."
"…Yeah?"
"Even if you're lying about being Ice Pick Thompson…"
"…"
'Shit. He figured me out.' Smith thought, annoyed. Nico continued plainly.
"You're not the one who killed Lisha… am I right?"
"That's right. I swear on my insanity and the shred of sanity left in this brain of
mine--that, at least, is true."
"Then who was it that killed her?"
"That would be my last target."
Smith smiled self-deprecatingly as he brought up the name of the young reporter
Mark had told him about.

And with that knowledge in hand, Nico--

<=>

The basement of the Jazz Hall 'Coraggioso'.

"Actually, I was looking for someone named Szilard. I looked into a few things here
and there, and found out Mr. Lester here might have had something to do with him.
So I went to the newspaper company he works at--not the Daily Days, mind you--and
stood around at the back of the building. That's when someone suddenly stabbed me
out of nowhere! I thought I might die of shock, but that's when the person who
stabbed me took off with this terrified face, saying 'It's not him.'."

Elmer elaborated on the specifics of the situation without even being asked to. But
the others in the basement could do nothing but gape at him in shock. The torture
specialist Tick was about the only one nodding to his monologue, but no one knew
how much of Elmer's story he actually understood.

"So I went off to look for that boy and found him standing on the edge of Brooklyn
Bridge. Then it was my turn to be terrified. Ahaha!"

Elmer suddenly wiped the smiled form his face and whispered into Mark's ear.

"…Now that I think about it, would you prefer these people not know about you
being Ice Pick Thompson? I could pretend I don't know a thing."

"…Never mind. It doesn't matter at this point."

Mark seemed to be having trouble accepting the entirety of the situation. With a tired
look he crumpled to his knees.

But he was quickly brought back to reality by the sound of Lester's voice.

"Y-you! An immortal… like Szilard?!"

"That's right. So you really do know old Szilard."

"P-please. I'll do anything you say! A-anything! So please… The elixir…!" Lester
beseeched Elmer, desperately kneeling like a man in prayer.

His words reached Mark's ears. The boy could instantly feel something dark stirring
inside him. Lester's actions were beyond pathetic to him, and it was less than a
second before his condescendence turned to outrage.

"So… You'd go that far for this thing?"

"…What?"

Madness was clear in Lester's tone. His eyes could see Mark pulling out a small
bottle from the paper bag he was holding.

At first Lester had no idea what it was.

But the moment he saw the liquor-like substance swirling inside, his thoughts began
to stir like those of a madman.

"No! It can't be!"

"Back when mom was still alive… we buried this bottle at dad's grave. I always
wondered why we had to do that, but now I know. You were looking for this, weren't
you?"

"So it's true…! The incomplete elixir's still here! Mark! Please! P-please give it to
me. That liquor should have belonged to all of us equally."

"…You killed my mom over this liquor?"

"…! N-no! It was her! Your mother Paula was the one at fault! You saw that man's
wounds healing, didn't you?! We could become like him! We could be free from
death! The essence of all humanity's dreams! That's not something anyone should
keep for themselves!"

"Humanity's… dreams?" Mark whispered coldly, hearing Lester's increasingly
incomprehensible cries. The hatred welling in his heart had finally reached the
breaking point.

"That's it…? You killed my mom over something that stupid?!"

Mark slowly raised the bottle upwards.

"H-hey! Stop! What are you doing?! Look, I'll give you whatever you want! So
please…"

"You know why I brought this here? It wasn't so I could drink it, and I'm not going to
give it to you, either."

With a look both murderous and sorrowful, he swung his arm above his head.

His face had been masked by that of a cold-blooded serial killer.

"I brought this here so I could destroy it right before your eyes."



"STOP, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Lester leapt from the spot like a wild beast, charging towards Mark.

Mark did not let this chance pass him by.

And before anyone could stop him, Mark thrust out his right hand as Lester rushed
towards him, just as he had planned.

Naturally, he was holding the ice pick.

But the strike that pierced Lester's neck was not nearly enough to end his obsession
with immortality.

Though the ice pick was driven into Lester's neck, the man clung to Mark's clothes
and crawled up towards his left arm like a creature possessed.

Mark pulled out the ice pick from Lester's neck, and stabbed him again and again--in
his chest, his stomach, and his leg.

But Lester could not be stopped. He snatched the bottle from Mark without giving
him the chance to shatter it against the floor, and kicked the boy aside.

Blood began to stain Lester's clothing. It was spewing from his neck in rhythm with
the beating of his heart. He had also been thrown back by the impact of kicking Mark
away, but Lester did not seem to realized what kind of a state he was in.

At this very moment in time, not even he himself existed in his world. All that
mattered was the incomplete elixir of immortality he grasped in his hands.

Although he could not escape old age, this liquor would allow him to survive any
physical injury.

He tore at the cork with a monstrous expression. The mafiosi watched him, their
brows creased with frowns.

"Is that the Grand Panacea, by any chance?" Elmer asked gravely, watching Lester
writhe on the floor while unsealing the bottle. "It's not such a good idea to drink-"

Elmer tried to stop him, but Lester shook him off with a "Outta my way!" and
downed the contents of the bottle in one gulp.
He forced the liquor down his throat, almost as if to counter the flow of blood from
his neck.

'Hah. Hahaha! I drank it! I'm immortal!' Lester thought, intending to shout out loud.

"Urk… Grurrrrgh… Kack… Ack…?"
Air was leaking from his throat. He could not speak.
"…? Gah… Haaaaargh…"
As his sanity returned to him, Lester realized that the searing agony across his body
had not been lifted.
"AAAAAAARGH! GAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"
His neck was no longer bleeding.
And yet, for some reason, his wounds showed no signs of healing.
Not only that, the blood that he had spilled earlier did not return to him, as Elmer's
had.
Elmer looked down at Lester, writhing in confusion, and sighed solemnly.
"That's why I tried to stop you."
"Urghhh! Aaaaack! …?!"
"The Grand Panacea makes you immortal, no doubt about that, but it doesn't heal
your previous injuries."
Elmer was stoic in the face of the screaming man laying with puncture wounds all
over his body.

It was enough to give Mark and the other mafiosi chills.

"It's the same with illnesses. Your health won't deteriorate, sure, but the Grand
Panacea accepts your body when you drank it as its normal state."

"…!"

"I've been told it has a bit of a mind of its own and naturally improves things over
time, but with injuries like yours… It might take a very long time. Or it might be
faster to count on your mind to break first so you wouldn't feel pain any longer."

How much of Elmer's lengthy explanation had Lester taken in? He had lost so much
blood, but he could not even lose consciousness. Lester could do nothing but scream,
drowning in deathly pain.

What was Mark thinking, watching his mother's killer in this way?

"Are you satisfied now? Or does the fact that he's alive mean you still have some
unfinished business?" Elmer quietly asked the stone-faced boy.

Mark, however, did not answer the question. Instead, he chose to ask one of his own.

"…How'd you know I was here?"

"Well… This man named Shaft asked me to help him round up some of his friends.
That's when I spotted you walking through the rain with the darkest expression I've
seen yet. 'I'll take care of the situation at the building, so please go after him', Shaft
said to me, and let me come follow you. But I'd never have thought I'd get involved
in a commotion like this."

Coincidences were terrifying yet interesting, Elmer explained, and continued with a
smile.

"To be perfectly honest with you, I'd wanted to follow Shaft to the condemned
building, but it's certainly a good thing I did what he told me to. If you were a girl
and slightly older, I'd even call him my Cupid, but that's another story."

"A… condemned building?"

Elmer was talking half-jokingly, but most of it meant nothing to Mark, who had no
idea about Graham's situation. The same went for the Gandor men standing around
them.

"All right. Don't take another step."

"I don't know how you know this reporter, but… immortal aside, we can't let you go,
ice pick kid. You're gonna have a nice long stay here 'til the bosses get back."

They slowly but tentatively closed in on Mark and Elmer.

However, the next moment, they heard the sound of many sets of footsteps at the top
of the stairs.

"N-Nico!"

The men in the basement tensed as Nico and Maria returned.

"…What's going on here?"

Nico's eyes narrowed when he caught sight of the boy holding the bloodied ice pick.
But his gaze then wandered to Lester, groaning in pain on the floor. He sighed as
though he understood everything.

"And you would be Mark… Mark Wilmans, correct?"

"…? How'd…?"

"Lisha never stopped talkin' about you. Said there was a kid who looked after her
instead of the other way around."

"Lisha said that…?"

Mark slowly returned to his true colours as a child, spurred by shock.

"Answer me. Are you Mark?"

"…Mark… Mark Wilmans… was just killed by an assassin."

The boy looked down, unable to look the man in the eye, but even still he refused to
turn tail and run.

"I… I'm just a serial killer. Ice Pick Thomp-"

"You don't have to say anything else."

"…?"

"After all, I'm coming back from talking to Ice Pick Thompson in the flesh."

Nico smirked, walking towards the middle of the room. One of the men went up to
him and explained the situation.

Nico listened to the report in silence, then looked down at Lester.

"I see. Just like the bosses, eh?"

At that very moment, Nico's right foot mercilessly crushed Lester's left hand.

"AAAAAARGH!"

Lester's fingers snapped with a sharp crack. Wind and screaming leaked out from his
throat. But his fingers, bent in odd directions, rapidly regained their original shape.

"Tick."

"Yes, Mr. Nicola?" Tick answered, his scissors dancing in the air.

"You can take the rest of the day off." Nico said, wearing a look of pure ice.

"Oh?" Tick tilted his head.

"This bastard here's gonna have to deal with me." Nico replied, suppressing his
emotions with every ounce of self-control he could muster.

"You will?"

"That's right. I might not be a torture specialist like you, but if he's not going to die no
matter what I do to him… I might as well have a ball. Let off some stress."

Elmer sighed quietly as he listened to the conversation. He crouched down beside
Lester, who was still groaning in agony, and gently whispered to him.

"Say, I have an idea that might make you happy."

"…????"

"If you think you'll be happier dying this very instant, and if you can go out with a
smile… I could devour you now with my right hand. …But only if you promise me
you'll be smiling."

Lester had likely understood what would happen to him very soon.

And yet he shook his head as though in denial. A soundless scream escaped from the
hole in his throat.

"I see. That's a shame." Elmer said quietly. But a smile soon returned to his face.

"Then how about this?" He said gently. "I'll be back in a few years… once you've
changed your mind."

"Maybe by then, we'll have found a way to ease your suffering. And maybe the hearts
of the people you've hurt will have been mended."



Aside B

-----

A certain day in a certain month, at the speakeasy 'Alveare'.

"Now that I think about it, how exactly do we go about becoming money?"

"How about we wear clothes made out of coins?"

"Of course! That's brilliant, Miria! I'm sure layers upon layers of coins would be
enough to stop even bullets! Hold on, now. I'll step out and exchange all of our bills
for change!"

"Okay, Isaac! But won't it be heavy?"

"Of course! But remember, Miria. These clothes are responsible for protecting our
very lives. So it's only natural it weighs more than a person. I other words, money is
heavier than a life!"

"Get your money's worth!"

Isaac and Miria's conversation was as incomprehensible as ever. Firo sighed again.

"Are you two still at it?"

The young camorrista cleaned up his glass, melted ice and all, and turned to the
unusual duo.

"So say you manage to block Ice Pick Thompson's attack. What're you gonna do after
that?"

"Well… Uh, what are we going to do, Miria?"

"Get rid of him?"

"But we still have no idea if he's even a bad guy."

"What a tough question."

Firo's eyes widened as Isaac and Miria debated the morality of their plans.

"Hey, just setting the first part aside for a sec. You wouldn't ever call a murderer a
good guy, would you?"

"But some people are nice, even if they've killed people before."

"Just like Jacuzzi!"

"What's with that name?" Firo wondered out loud. But instead of receiving an
answer, he was greeted with a pair of warm smiles.

"Firo, even a Prohibition-ignoring mafi-… camorrista like you is a good guy!"

"You're all good guys!"

"Hey, don't just assume we're all actually nice people. You might end up getting
yourselves in a whole mess of trouble." Firo warned with a wry grin. But the duo's
reply was less than expected.

"Don't be so humble, Firo! At first, we thought you were all villains and tried to steal
money from you because we thought no one would scold us for it! But now look at
us! Bosom friends I'm proud to associate with!"

"Ennis helped you too, so that makes you even better!"

"Whoa, hold it. Didn't ya just say something pretty big about stealing from us?" Firo
spluttered, unwilling to let that one point slide so easily.

But Isaac and Miria waved away the topic with a pair of optimistic pats on his
shoulders.

"Don't worry about it, Firo. It's all in the past! And as you can see, instead of money,
we're stealing your time!"

"Money is time!"

"…"

'Maybe I should've just let that one slide.'

Fearing that another executive might catch wind of the bomb that Isaac and Miria had
just dropped, Firo hurriedly chased them out of the speakeasy. He returned to the
counter and sighed loudly.

"Me? A good person…?" He muttered, comparing himself to Ice Pick Thompson.

Firo was also guilty or murder.

He once killed a man named Szilard Quates, a madman with no hope of redemption.
It was true that Szilard had taken many more lives than Ice Pick Thompson could
ever hope to match. But Firo thought that, perhaps the fact that he had stolen the life
of even a lowlife like him made him little different from Ice Pick Thompson.

Redemption did not come for murderers. Even Firo knew this well.

He also knew that, as a man who willingly joined the camorra, he could never find
complete salvation.

In that sense, perhaps salvation itself was the punishment given to him for his crimes.

Some people might claim that no punishment was too severe for a serial killer.

But what if Isaac and Miria were right, and Ice Pick Thompson wasn't an unrepentant
villain?

What if he was not on an indiscriminate killing spree, but acting on some reasons of
his own?

Or to take it another step further, what if it was the kind of murder that took place in a
war zone? Something that everyone agreed was unavoidable?

Firo shrugged.

'But then again, he had to go murder a prostitute that didn't look like she had
anything to do with anyone.'

Not knowing the truth, Firo continued.

If the police were to never catch Ice Pick Thompson, would he or she continue to
murder people, without ever being brought to justice? Would they cackle villainously
at their good fortune?

On the other hand, if the serial killings had been carried out for a specific purpose,
and the murderer was never granted the salvation of punishment, would they be able
to live with that burden for the rest of their lives?

Even if Ice Pick Thompson was a good person and his victims were evil, there would
still be no salvation for him.

Murder was murder, no matter the excuse.

Setting aside the matter of determination, the act of stepping into the shoes of a
murderer was an act of rejecting salvation.

And naturally, not even Firo himself could be saved completely from the act of
having murdered Szilard. Adding to that was the fact that he justified his own actions
and dared to hope to one day marry the girl he loved. At this point, he was a regular
scoundrel who could arguably be even worse than just a plain old murderer.

But if he was to be punished for it all one day, he hoped that he could bear the burden
of it all on his own.

Firo remembered his flatmate, the woman he loved, and quietly closed his eyes.

A small figure approached him.

"Are you thinking about what Isaac and Miria were saying earlier, big brother? Are
you worried that you're not a good person?"

"Czes…"

"That's nothing to lose sleep over, big brother. You have a long, long time ahead of
you. There's no merit in debating ethics and morality over trifles." Czes said, more
detached than mature. "Until just a few years ago in this country, opening up a bar
was entirely legal. But now it's considered a crime. Although I guess almost no
countries or time periods would condone murder, you never know what the future is
going to bring. Think about the exceptions people make for wartime, for one."

"…"

"We immortals have no choice but to reconcile our beliefs with those of the time we
live in. Concepts like good and evil are meaningless once the ages go by and
countries change."

Czes, the older immortal, was lecturing his younger friend.

"In that sense, Isaac and Miria were right on the mark when they said that people
couldn't defeat time. Even setting aside matters like aging and lifespan."

Firo looked at Czes's resigned smile and tried to say something, but stopped himself
as he realized there was nothing he could do for the boy at this point.

Perhaps this had something to do with the wall standing between them and Czes. He
wondered if he should continue this topic of discussion, when Czes suddenly spoke
up.

"Oh, but there are some eccentrics among us immortals."

"Eccentrics?"

"What I said to you earlier was actually something I heard from someone else. He
said that an immortal, who would live in all sorts of times and places, would have no
choice but to reconcile their beliefs according to the age…"

Czes nostalgically recounted the words and faces of his fellow alchemists, who had
become immortal alongside himself.

"That's when someone else butted in with a smile. 'I don't care,' he said, 'I won't
compromise my belief for eras or countries. After all, people's smiles are equal no
matter where or when they are. That's why smiles will be the only standard I live by.
My own law, if you will', he told us with a completely straight face."

Czes remembered the alchemist who had been willing to die for the smiles of others,
even before he had attained immortality--and brought himself to show an honest
smile.

"Sometimes you could be terribly eerie, but I wonder how you're doing now…
Elmer."

Epilogue :
Both the Immortals and The Living Share the World Together

-----

He remembered what his mother had told him at his father's grave two years ago.

"Listen carefully, Mark. If anyone takes you away and asks you where it is, you must
tell them about this place before they do anything to you, do you understand?"

His mother buried the box containing the bottle at his father's grave. She then
embraced him so tightly he thought he might break.

"I thought about having you drink it, but… I just couldn't go through with it. That
would be too selfish of me. We still have no idea if you'll come to love this world or
not."

Mark did not understand what his mother was saying. So he continued to listen.

"That's why… that's why you must be strong, Mark. And one day, when you learn
everything, remember this place. What you do with the bottle will be your decision."

His mother's warmth soothed his heart. Mark could never forget the smile she showed
him that day. But only several days later, she was found dead with countless holes in
her body.

And he could never smile as she did again.

<=>

It was morning after the commotion.

"I'm glad we got out of there safely." Elmer said to Mark. They had both been
released from the Gandor hideout without a fuss.

"How're you feeling now? Do you think you can smile, now that you've taken your
revenge?"

"…"

Mark glared at the tactless immortal monster.

"I'm sorry. I suppose it's not that simple of an answer."

"…"

Elmer followed after the silent Mark and continued.

"Revenge, you see, isn't something you do for the dead. It's something of a struggle
for your own life… like an act of reconciling your own feelings with reality in order
to move forward. A lot of people claim they plan to die after taking revenge, but even
that's just their way of reaching the goal of dying happy."

"…"

"You've gotten your revenge, and you're moving forward. You've earned your right to
be happy. But then again, I have no idea whether that's morally right or not, and I
honestly don't care."

The immortal monster was neither praising nor criticizing Mark. He continued
nonchalantly.

"Are you wondering if you have to make amends for what you've done?"

"…"

"I'd say, go right ahead if it'll make you smile. If you have regrets, then think of how
you'll redeem yourself. Allowing one of your victims' relatives to get revenge on you
might be an option, as long as you're satisfied with that."

Although Elmer was pouring out one tactless comment after another, Mark knew that
he meant nothing ill by it.

So he continued to listen, refusing to run away.

"Just keep thinking about it until you feel better about it. You don't need to give up,
but just remember one thing."

"…"

"I'll never deny you the right to be happy, even if the rest of the world does otherwise.
Don't forget that such people exist."

Mark finally stopped. He turned around and looked Elmer straight in the eye.

"I… I think you're creepy for saying all these things with a straight face. And to be
honest, I'm scared of you. I don't want to say this, but I'm scared that if someone like
you is really immortal, you'll end up destroying the world someday."

"Ah, there's nothing to be sorry about. It's a perfectly normal reaction. An old friend
of mine always used to say, 'Your goodwill is worse than the wrath of God'. Pretty
harsh of him, don't you think? Hah!"

With that, Elmer was done. He waved to Mark and turned away.

But the boy suddenly called him back. Elmer turned around.

"But still… Thanks. For everything. I mean it."

It was for a single fleeting moment, but Elmer could see a faint smile on Mark's face.

And that was enough for him.

<=>

Evening. The speakeasy 'Jane Doe'.

Having finished his report to the President of the Daily Days, Carl paid a visit to the
speakeasy where Graham and his gang were supposed to be. After speaking to them,
he visited the Gandors' jazz hall and put together a nearly complete picture of the
events that had taken place.

'So in the end… Lester never fled New York.'

Carl had expected Lester to skip town immediately after hiring Smith. Why had he
gone to the Gandors despite himself--a man who did not wish for adventure in his
life?

Carl voiced his confusion before the President.

"…I can only surmise that the bloodlust of the killer within him had been influencing
the actions of his normal self." The President replied after a moment, his tone as
gentle as ever.

'If that's the way it is… Maybe he avoided adventure because he didn't want to face
the killer within himself again.

'Or maybe I'm giving him way too much credit.'

Feeling pity for his former co-worker, Carl descended the stairs and thought of Mark.

He was intending to adopt the boy if he could, but when he made his offer to Mark--

"Thank you… but Mark Wilmans is already dead."

He shook his head, pointing out that a dead boy could not be adopted.

'What's he planning to do now? Is he going to leave New York?

'Or is he going to turn himself in? …Then again, I heard that a mysterious
department from the Bureau of Investigation always intervenes with anything that
relates to the Elixir…

'But either way, it must have been a painful experience for a child, committing
murder.'

Despite his youth, Mark could so easily take the lives of humans. The fact that he was
taking revenge on them did not change the fact that he had become a murderer.

'Even though his motives were the complete opposite of Lester's…'

Perhaps it was never the case that some people were just born killers. Instead, Carl
thought, every person was born with the innate potential to become a murderer. Then
perhaps retaining one's humanity within this world full of potential killers was an
internal struggle all humans were faced with every day.

Because his article on the incident would deem it an eternal mystery, Carl thought of
ending it with this thought. But he still did not want to think of Mark as someone who
had lost this battle with his own self.

'Then again… Even if I wanted to ask, I doubt I'd ever see him again.'

Feeling a different sort of sympathy for Mark, Carl stepped into the speakeasy.

And there he saw a familiar face.

"Lemme spin you one hell of an awesome yarn! Who'd ever have thought Boss Smith
would find himself an underling?"

"He's his apprentice, not his underling, Boss."

"An apprentice. An apprentice…? But that would mean he's obliged to teach him
something. And on that topic, it feels like the sun and the world have been teaching
me my place over these past few days, which in other words means that I am the
apprentice of the sun and this world…? And that this scorching, searing weather is a
test?! This isn't good, Shaft. I still haven't studied anything!"

"Then why don't you just fail and get abandoned by the world, Boss?"

As Graham went on with his rant and Shaft dryly responded, a tall man in a long coat
sat in a corner of the speakeasy, accompanied by a small shadow with a hat pressed
down over its head.

"Hey, apprentice."

"Yes, Mr. Smith?"

"…Call me Master."

"Yes, Master?"

There was no mistaking it. Carl knew that face.

And as if to confirm his suspicions, Shaft spoke up.

"Anyway, Boss. Did you really have to go with the 'nameless boy with memory loss'
story? I mean, there's cheesy, and then there's just plain-Gah!"

"Quit your yapping, Shaft." Graham said, covering Shaft's mouth with the end of his
wrench. "Listen up. The identity of Ice Pick Thompson stays between us."

"…'Course, Boss. Wouldn't even tell my own father if he asked."

Overhearing the conversation, Carl waited for Smith to leave his seat before speaking
to the boy. But the boy plainly told him that he would be working as Smith's
apprentice.

"That doesn't mean I want to become an assassin, though. Mr. Smi-I mean, Master
said he'd take on my past, even all my crimes, but I can't lose that fact completely. I'm
a killer, whether I like it or not."

He said that Smith had agreed with his point of view, intending to truly make sure
that the boy named Mark was, for all intents and purposes, dead.

"So… I want to follow Master as he moves on with my crimes. I want to see them
through to the end."

"…And you're planning to take responsibility in his stead?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'm just having trouble letting go, but…"

Mark closed his eyes for a moment and remembered his mother. He put on a smile
that he tried to make similar to hers.

"I'm still alive because of my mom, and all kinds of coincidences. I… I want to see
that life through to the end."

Carl thought of something to say, but he shook his head at the boy's smile.

"If you ever get sick of things, come find me at the Daily Days."
The information broker thought that he must be a hypocrite for seeing his dead
daughter in the boy, but he showed the boy a smile of his own.
"I'd be happy to teach you the basics of being a reporter."

<=>

A little girl was crying on the platform, having been separated from her parents.
The people passing by worried for her for a moment, but the bell signalling the train's
imminent departure sent them all hurrying into the cars.
But one man approached the girl, not caring for the bell.
The train's doors closed shut.
Though the man must have just wasted his train ticket, he crouched down to the girl's
eye-level and smiled gently to comfort her.

"Hey there, nice to meet you! You can keep crying if you'd like, but try to give me a
smile! Show be a big grin!"

That summer, the weeping girl encountered--